THEY WERE OLDER THAN EDMUND, BUT HE’D NOTICED THEM. Carole was already buried. Once Addie had let him look through her eyeglasses. He knew them when they were alive. Before the service was over, Edmund decided he’d squeeze out of the sanctuary. He wanted to be standing on the church steps when they carried the coffins out. He had to be there to say good-bye.
He wished he could hug their mamas down near the front of the sanctuary, but they had family, women all around them. He’d just be a fly to them. A troublesome fly buzzing too close. Still, as he squeezed past all the knees, he kept his eyes on the parents. He knew that even though he was just a little boy, never again in his life would he be a witness to such pain.
But he had to be standing on the steps when the coffins were carried from the church, so he squeezed out.
Outside, Edmund saw a throng of grown people, everybody dressed up, crying and waiting. When he was grown, this would be something he’d do—go to funerals. But he was already here.
The steps were jam-packed. Grown people didn’t want to make room for him, but he was little and they did.
He could hear the groaning and moaning swell inside the church. His mama had said God had to send trials and tribulations to test us. But why? Yes, the service must be ending. That must be the sound of hell, all that pain, all those tears and wailing inside the sanctuary. The crowd outside became silent. The TV folks got their cameras ready.
There was the end of the first coffin coming out the door, coming out like something being born, riding high up and unsteady on the shoulders of the men. Now the crowd groaned, and the pallbearers were trying to hold the box level, not let it fall, and the front tilted down to descend the steps. Here came the next coffin, and Edmund heard himself wailing. He stood stock-still, he didn’t blink, but his mouth was open and spread, turned down like a sad clown’s, and the sound was coming out.
He tried to get control of his tongue so he could say the right words. He had to speak. He had to say something out loud on this occasion. For himself, he had to speak, to make the words get round the stone in his throat. God would take his voice away if he didn’t say the words.
Here came the last coffin. Everybody crying, all the faces glazed with tears. The crowd was swaying in grief with a sound that must be an ocean sound.
Edmund made himself swallow. He would swallow three times, he decided, then his tongue would be loosed and his lips would shape words. He was sick and weak, but he managed it. He could hear his high child’s voice even if nobody else could: “Good-bye, Cynthia. Good-bye, Carole. Good-bye, Denise. Good-bye, Addie.”
He watched the three coffins borne high passing over the crowd, coffins like boats on water, to the hearses. Hinged on the side, the big doors at the ends of the black hearses were swung wide open, waiting.
He had spoken in a little voice, but he’d done it. He’d said their names.